“Let me help you,” said Rollison gravely.

“I can manage quite well, sir, thank you,” said Jolly. “I must have been nearly asleep,” he remarked. “I’m sorry sir.”

“I wish I were nearly asleep,” said Rollison smiling into Jolly’s brown, soulful-looking eyes. “But I’m going out.”

“Can I get you anything?” asked Jolly.

“I hope I’m not going to need anything,” said Rollison. “Jolly, between these four walls——”

“Yes, sir?” A hopeful, inquiring note sprang into Jolly’s voice.

“Snub isn’t in love or anything like that, is he?” asked Rollison.

“Mr. Higginbottom, sir? I have not been informed of any such phenomenon.” Jolly was now quite wide awake. “He does from time to time form attachments, but I believe they are always short-lived.”

“But how deep while they last? Has he ever mentioned a Mrs. Allen?”

Jolly pondered, and shook his head. “I don’t recall the name, sir.”

“Or Barbara Allen? Possibly shortened to Bar or Babs?”

“Definitely not, sir,” said Jolly. “I hope that Mr. Higginbottom has not been getting himself into difficulties.”

“So do I,” said Rollison. “But a tearful young lady wants to see him urgently, and doesn’t mind how late it is when he calls. She’s undoubtedly in trouble. Snub’s in Blackpool, disporting himself with the Lancashire lasses, and so——”

“You are going to see Mrs. Allen,” concluded Jolly.

“Admirable deduction,” said Rollison. “And I’m going at once because I don’t want to be too late! Her address is Byngham—with a “y”—Court Mansions, St. John’s Wood, and her telephone number is St. John’s 81312. So if I’m not back by the morning, you’ll know where to find me.”

“Very good, sir,” said Jolly primly.

“Good-night,” said Rollison.